The Jabberwock Affair
by Dancing April
Summary: Illya is captured by THRUSH, who drug and subject him to a new technology in an effort to retrieve an enzyme formula he memorized and then destroyed. While struggling to discern reality from illusion, the youthful U.N.C.L.E. agent becomes the object of desire of a beautiful THRUSH operative.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! As you see, I'm back with a new tale to tell **:-D** which I hope you will enjoy.

I'd been watching some of the earlier MFU TV episodes and had finished "The Mad, Mad Tea Party Affair" when I'd gone into the kitchen for something and the iconic 1960s song "White 'Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane came on the radio. The strange synchronicity of the two events ultimately served as the inspiration for "The Jabberwock Affair".

The title of this story as well as all heading quotes are taken from Lewis Carroll's books, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and its sequel _Through The Looking Glass._

* * *

 _ **WARNING! Although *T* Rated, this story contains adult content (some depiction of sex and nudity) and is not suitable for younger readers.**_

 **GENRE: Drama, Suspense, with adult romance, non-graphic violence** **(no erotica or slash)**

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own the Man From U.N.C.L.E. series, images, or its original characters. This story is intended to be read and (hopefully) enjoyed solely as a work of fanfiction and is dedicated to the talented actors who portrayed these beloved characters in the two original 1960s television series—Robert Vaughn, David McCallum, Leo G. Carroll, Stefanie Powers, Noel Harrison

* * *

This story features Illya Kuryakin, with appearances by Napoleon Solo and Alexander Waverly

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 **"** **Beware the Jabberwock, my son  
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"**

* * *

Heedless that he was jaywalking, Illya Kuryakin strode quickly across the familiar New York City side street as he headed to Del Floria's Cleaners, the cover facade for U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He was running late for a meeting with Alexander Waverly, who had little tolerance for tardiness from his agents when they were scheduled to confer with their no-nonsense Section Chief.

Illya could already envision Waverly's disapproving scowl and Napoleon Solo's sympathetic warning glance once his partner arrived.

Usually punctual, the fair-haired Russian had simply overslept. Apparently his alarm had failed to either go off or awaken him; but fortunately his internal clock had kicked in and he had awoken with a start, sensing he was running late. A quick glance over at the electric Westclox sitting on the bedside stand showed him he had overslept by nearly twenty minutes.

The blond agent had just reached the few steps that led down to Del Floria's entrance when he heard a loud, persistent honking behind him. Hesitating on the top step, Illya glanced back toward the curb and saw a sleek black limousine pull up. Immediately one of the dark panes on the passenger side facing him glided smoothly downward, and Kuryakin saw and heard Alexander Waverly call to him from the shadowed interior of the large car.

Although surprised that the Section Chief was in the limo and not in his office inside headquarters, the youthful Russian hurried over to the vehicle and leaned down.

"I am terribly sorry I am late, Sir, but my alarm…" he began to explain, but Waverly interrupted gruffly, "It is of no consequence, Mr. Kuryakin. Please get in. Time is of the essence. We are heading to the airport where an U.N.C.L.E. jet is on standby. I'll apprise you of what is happening on the way there."

Nodding, Illya opened the door and slid onto the wide, comfortable dark leather seat across from the impeccably-dressed older man in the expensive grey suit with matching Fedora hat. It was rare that Waverly himself went on an assignment, but it did happen on occasion, and so Illya had no reason to question that.

As the limo pulled away and merged back into the flow of New York City traffic the blond agent glanced around the limo's spacious yet gloomy interior.

"Isn't Napoleon coming along on this mission? I thought he was also scheduled to meet with you this morning." It was apparent that aside from Waverly, the chauffeur and another man seated in the front—neither of whom Illya recognized but assumed were U.N.C.L.E. security agents—were the vehicle's only other occupants.

Alexander Waverly pulled out his neatly-folded white handkerchief from the left breast pocket of his tweed Brooks Brothers suit coat.

"We have no need of him. It is you we want," he replied, but this time the Section Chief's voice was less cultured in its inflection and tone, the accent different. Illya turned his head to look at him with obvious confusion.

"Now, Mr. Kuryakin, carefully remove your gun from its holster under your suit jacket and hand it to the chap pointing his own weapon at you," the bogus Waverly said, adding, "He won't kill you since we need you alive, but he also won't hesitate to wound you if necessary to incapacitate you."

Illya looked back at the two occupants in the front seat and saw that the other passenger had turned and was indeed pointing a lethal-looking Soviet Tokarev TT-33 semi-automatic pistol at him; and in this close range, he could not miss.

His thoughts racing as he tried to make sense out of what was happening, Illya had little choice but to do as he was told. It was obvious now that this had been some sort of trap, and his fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.

Once he had handed his U.N.C.L.E. Special over to the man in the front seat, the fake Waverly pushed a button on a small control panel in front of him. Immediately a glass partition rose, separating the passengers in the back of the limo from the chauffeur and his armed companion in the front.

Watching the older man warily, Illya decided that he would take his chances and throw himself out of the moving vehicle into the middle of New York City traffic, and subtlety placed his right hand onto the door handle. However, when he tried to yank it open he found that the car door was securely locked.

The craggy features of the bogus Waverly gave him a chilly smile. "Nice try, young man, but you won't be escaping that easily. And because I have heard that you can be very tricky and dangerous, I think it would be prudent if I render you harmless until we arrive at our destination."

Alarmed by what he'd just said, and hoping to stall for time while he figured a way out of this, Illya asked, "Which is _where_ exactly? And what do you want from me? Who are you really?"

However, instead of answering him the other man placed his handkerchief over his nose and mouth and raised his walking stick to point its tip at the U.N.C.L.E. agent, pulling a trigger mechanism hidden in the handle.

Immediately there was a puff of pale yellow smoke. Taken by surprise, Illya jerked back in the seat and threw his arm up to cover the lower part of his face but was unable to avoid inhaling some of the potent tranquilizing mist. Coughing violently he tried to clear it from his lungs and throat, but to no avail: within a matter of moments his blue eyes began to glaze…and then closed as he slid sideways over onto the seat and lay limp and still.

Smiling with satisfaction, the bogus Waverly pushed the intercom button. "Lower the windows to allow some fresh air in here for a few minutes, Jackson," he ordered, his voice muffled by the protective barrier of the chemically-treated kerchief that neutralized the effects of the knockout fog. "Then pull off into an ally so Jenkins can better secure our prized captive."

***"

"Keep trying to locate Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly said into the console microphone. He then sat back in his large leather chair with a heavy sign of exasperation.

Seated across from the Section Chief, Napoleon Solo commented worriedly, "It isn't like Illya not to check in or respond to our efforts to reach him."

"I agree, Mr. Solo," Waverly replied, also looking concerned. "Perhaps you should go to his apartment and see if…."

A buzzer on Waverly's control console sounded, and he flipped the appropriate switch to respond. "Yes, what is it? Has Mr. Kuryakin arrived or been located?" he asked.

"No, Sir," came the terse reply. Solo recognized the voice as that of Brad Campbell, one of their security chiefs. "Mr. Waverly, I'm sending you a section of surveillance footage taped a short while ago that shows Illya was coming here. There is something on it you will…well…want to see." Brad's anxious tone and his choice of words immediately put both Solo and Waverly on alert.

"Very well, Mr. Campbell. Send it through," Waverly responded, and then swiveled his chair around so that he could view the large screen on the wall behind him.

Immediately a segment of film appeared which had been edited from one of the security cameras installed on the front of the brownstone building complex which housed U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

Although there was no sound, the angle of the camera had caught the image of Illya Kuryakin crossing the street and approaching the steps leading down to Del Floria's. The time line at the bottom of the scrolling video showed that the blond agent had been arriving just a few minutes late for his scheduled meeting with Waverly and Solo.

They saw a black limousine pull up to the curb behind him, and could see Illya turn to look at it. A rear window of the vehicle was lowered, showing a glimpse of a shadowed figure wearing a Fedora hat seated inside. Inexplicably Illya walked over to the car, leaned down and said something before nodding and gutting into the vehicle, which then pulled away.

It was apparent by the youthful agent's manner and body language he was not being threatened or coerced.

Before either Solo or Waverly could comment on this puzzling sequence of events a different camera angle appeared on screen, and this one zoomed in to focus on the man seated inside the limousine who had spoken to Kuryakin—a man who looked remarkably like Alexander Waverly!

With a disbelieving stare that matched the Section Chief's startled reaction, Napoleon Solo leaned forward a little and said, "Uhh, Sir, do you by chance have an…evil twin?"


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE**

 **"** **Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't"**

* * *

Illya strode purposely across the street toward Del Floria's. He glanced at his watch and quickened his pace and hurried down the steps leading to the entrance of the dry cleaners.

But when he entered the familiar establishment he simply went up to the counter and fished a receipt out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the short middle-aged clerk.

Looking at it, Del Floria shook his head and gave the fair-haired young man a slight disapproving frown.

"This was due for pick up two weeks ago, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I know and I deeply apologize. I've been away on business for my firm and shall gladly pay for any additional storage charges and inconvenience," Illya replied. "I am running a little behind today for a very important meeting with my district manager, who will be mad as a hatter if I don't show up on time. So if you would be so kind, Mr. Del Floria, as to find my item for me. As I said, I'm already running late…."

"What the devil is he doing and saying?! Why isn't he entering U.N.C.L.E. headquarters?" exclaimed a tall man with slicked backed silvered hair and a graying goatee. He sounded British, and he and two other people were standing around what appeared to be a narrow hospital bed.

An unconscious Illya Kuryakin lay strapped and manacled to it in a large room cluttered with an assortment of unusual machines and equipment. His street clothes had been removed and he was now wearing dark blue cotton pajamas. Electrodes were attached to his temples and across his forehead, their long narrow cords anchored to an ominous-looking device sitting near the bed on a table with wheels. Next to the device sat a viewing monitor which everyone had been watching intently.

On its screen they could see and hear the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent talking to Del Floria although Illya was not physically in the dry cleaners. This was a memory from his perspective, but not an accurate recalling.

Somehow he was resisting the potent drug dripping slowly through the IV attached to the back of his left hand and the subsequent suggestion he'd been given by his captors to show how he entered U.N.C.L.E. HQ—therefore thwarting those watching the monitor from learning the exact layout of the hidden agency and the specific location of Waverly's office, which had recently been renovated and relocated elsewhere within the vast complex for security reasons.

"Dr. Lewis, you s-said this would work, that you c-could retrieve whatever memories you wished from hi-him," a very short scrawny man with oddly bulging eyes commented. He spoke with a noticeable stutter in a thick Hungarian accent.

The third occupant, a stout woman in her 50s with short frizzy carrot-red hair stood staring intently at Illya. "Kuryakin is much cleverer than I was led to expect. Even in a drug-induced suggestive state he is recalling only an implanted false memory. It must be his U.N.C.L.E. training. Most remarkable," she replied. "But let us try another test."

She tweaked a few knobs on the machine and then leaned over Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin, I would like you to recall in detail the interior of Alexander Waverly's new office and its location within U.N.C.L.E. headquarters."

Illya's closed eyelids twitched a little, and on the monitor they could see the previous images change and morph into that of a waiting room.

A door opened and an older dark-haired woman holding a clipboard glanced about and then said, "Is Mr. Kuryakin here?"

From Illya's perspective he seemed to rise from a sitting position and walk across the waiting room to follow the woman down a narrow nondescript hallway. She stopped before an open doorway and waived him into what appeared to be a paper-cluttered paneled office with floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the back wall.

"Just have a seat across from the desk, and Mr. Waverly, the tax consultant assigned to your case, will be with you shortly."

"Bah, this is useless! All he is giving us are these nonsensical false memories!" Leland Charles, the tall man with the goatee, fumed looking from the monitor to the unconscious U.N.C.L.E. agent with contempt. "Doctor, if your machine cannot extract even a simple accurate memory from him, how do you plan to get that formula he memorized and then destroyed along with our Malta research facility a few weeks ago?!"

THRUSH neuroscientist Carole Lewis replied tartly, "Let me try once more." Again she leaned over Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin, listen to me carefully. I want you to remember exactly the formula you stole recently of the neutralizing enzyme for THRUSH's biowarfare virus. Visualize it just as you saw and memorized it."

At first nothing happened, then on the monitor a scene appeared, again shown from Illya's viewpoint as he moved stealthily along a darkened corridor, flashlight in hand. He stopped before an unmarked metal door which was locked…and then the images faded.

"Why aren't we s-seeing more?" the diminutive Hungarian asked as they all stared in confusion at the now blank monitor screen.

Tuning and adjusting dials on her machine the scientist replied, "It seems the young man's memory has been swiped of his activities beyond that point."

"Then what good is this memory retrieval machine of yours, Doctor Lewis?!" Leland Charles snapped. "THRUSH has funded a fortune to create the blasted thing and it is proving as useless as Kuryakin!"

Carole Lewis gave him an indignant look. "Mr. Charles, if it is true that this young man has the rare gift of a true eidetic memory, nothing has been truly lost, but merely hidden. Therefore that formula is still there, just deeply buried within other forgotten memories. I assure you that I shall eventually be able to retrieve that formula by creating in Kuryakin's mind a reality apart from this one in order to extract the information that you are seeking. However, given today's unforeseen results, this will take a little longer than I initially anticipated."

"Eidetic memory? What is that?" Charles frowned.

"In laymen's terms…a photographic memory, although even that is a bit of a misnomer. In any case, Mr. Kuryakin is said to possess an unusual capacity for recalling details and events in their accuracy, which is why we are all here now."

"THRUSH Central will n-not be happy about th-this delay," the Hungarian noted.

"Tell them these things take a little time, Mr. Dodgson. They must be patient. Otherwise, I suggest they torture the information out of the young man."

Leland Charles shook his head. "Doctor, a top U.N.C.L.E. agent like Kuryakin is thoroughly trained to withstand torture without revealing anything of import, which is why THRUSH has invested so heavily in this new memory machine of yours. I strongly suggest you not disappoint them and get from Kuryakin that formula using whatever methods you deem best. Once we have what we want from him…everything we want from him…then he will be terminated."

"Then let me do my job as I see fit," Lewis replied irritably, reaching over and turning off the machine and monitor. In response, Illya moaned softly and stirred.

"Is he awaking?" Charles asked, and she shook her frizzy head.

"No, that sometimes occurs when the equipment is shut down." She pushed a hidden buzzer under the table and almost immediately the two men who had been in the front seat of the limousine when Illya was kidnapped appeared.

"I'll contact you when I have the information you want," she said. She glanced behind her guests. "Jenkins and Jackson will show you the way out. This complex has a confusing layout, as you may have noticed when you arrived."

Turning, the two THRUSH representatives saw their waiting escorts.

As Lewis began unhooking Illya from the machine, she added, "Boys, return here after you see our guests safely out. I want you to take Kuryakin to the cell that has been prepared for him."

After the four men had departed the THRUSH neuroscientist once more gazed down at the unconscious U.N.C.L.E. agent lying before her, thinking how much she was going to enjoy breaking him. However, for that she would need some additional help, including the Jabberwock's.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER TWO** **  
** **  
"Well, when one's lost, I suppose it's good advice to stay where you are until someone finds you."**

* * *

Alexander Waverly—the _real_ Alexander Waverly—placed a thin folder on the table in front of him and tuned its polished revolving top until the file came to rest before Napoleon Solo, who picked it up.

"This is all we have at the moment on the elusive THRUSH operative known as the Jabberwock," he said.

Napoleon scanned the report quickly. Waverly was right. There was relatively very little on the man.

"So, other than we know him to be a master of disguise, no one knows his real identity or origins," the handsome CEA noted.

"Unfortunately, that is correct," Waverly nodded. "It is not even certain he is responsible for all of the incidents mentioned in that report, while others may have escaped our notice."

"He's that elusive…." Solo mused, then looked over at him. "But you believe that the Jabberwock is the man who tricked Illya by impersonating you."

"It is a reasonable assumption given that we have received reports that the Jabberwock may be operating in New York City at the moment…and given what we witnessed on that tape."

"If he could fool Illya into believing he was you, should we not be concerned that this man might try to enter U.N.C.L.E. HQ posing as you, Sir? Perhaps THRUSH plans to switch the two of you and that has something to do with abducting Illya."

Waverly smiled a little. "THRUSH must have known our security cameras might provide a facial identity of the man in the back seat of that limousine who spoke to Mr. Kuryakin. Still, it is a possibility and new precautions have been implemented to validate even my own identity. Yet as you know, I seldom use the entrance you fellows do," and Napoleon knew he was referring to the secret passageway which only the Section Chief could access from his office.

Solo said, "But the question still remains: why take the risk of grabbing Illya right here in front of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters? It is apparent they were lying in wait for him, so they must have wanted him pretty badly." He placed the file back on the revolving tabletop and returned it to Waverly.

The Section Chief tapped the closed folder when it came to rest before him. "I believe the answer to that question is in the fact THRUSH did go to such daring lengths, Mr. Solo, including using one of their most secret operatives to lure Mr. Kuryakin into that limousine because their organization is desperate to regain some vital information they believe he has."

"Which is….?" Solo frowned.

Waverly gazed at his CEA solemnly. "I believe Mr. Kuryakin was taken because THRUSH intends to retrieve the enzyme formula for that biowarfare antidote which he recently stole and destroyed after memorizing it."

Napoleon considered that. "I understand that this enzyme** would serve as an immediate antidote for their operatives in a biochemical warfare attack by THRUSH. Well, if they think to torture it out of Illya, it will do them little good."

Waverly nodded. "Indeed, because Mr. Kuryakin's memory of the formula was swiped once he imparted that information to our own scientists. However, word has now come to us that THRUSH has developed a machine that can tap into one's memories, even those forgotten."

Solo looked alarmed. "And you think that they took Illya because they may use this device to try to pick his brain, so to speak."

Waverly's expression turned bleak. "And not just to retrieve that formula from him. If this device actually has that capability, this not only bodes ill for Mr. Kuryakin but for U.N.C.L.E. as well."

"Because they will use it to glean everything they can about us from Illya," Solo nodded.

"Indeed, and not just about U.N.C.L.E. New York, but as much as he can tell them about our worldwide operations as well…which is why we must locate where THRUSH is holding that young man as quickly as possible!"

He had barely finished speaking when the buzzer on his control panel sounded.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked.

They heard Brad Campbell reply excitedly, "Sir, the limousine Illya left in, which we now know was stolen by tracing its license plate numbers that our cameras caught, has been found abandoned in a short term parking lot at La Guardia!"

"Could they have left the state, perhaps even the country, with Illya?" Solo said with alarm. "If so, we may be too late and have lost him. They could take him anywhere."

Grimly, Waverly said into the intercom: "Have your people check with airport records to see if any private jets left around the same time that limousine was abandoned. If so, have them gather all pertinent information, such as the number of passengers aboard, where the flight was going, and any cargo listed on the manifest."

"On it, Sir," came the reply.

* * *

 _**Note: In 2012 it was reported that researchers at Texas A &M University (USA) were working on modifying an enzyme to decompose and destroy harmful nerve agents in biochemical warfare attacks. But as we know, THRUSH was always ahead of its time in science and tehnology_ :-D


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER THREE**

 **"** **Have I gone mad?"  
"I'm afraid so, but let me tell you something, the best people usually are."**

* * *

Illya had come to his senses to find himself in a padded cell and wearing a restraining jacket.

There were no windows and the walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in large squares of a dingy beige quilted material. There were no personal amenities, either, not even a mattress to lie down on or a toilet.

Embedded in the 15-foot-ceiling overhead were spotlights that glared relentlessly down at him , making it impossible for Illya to have any idea what time it was or if it was day or night for the rest of the world outside of those padded walls.

He had been lying on his right side on the floor and he felt cramped, as if he'd been in the same position for a while. Yet when he tried to sit up, the room began to dip and spin so badly it made him nauseated and he was forced to lie down again (this time on his left side) until the vertigo eased enough for him to get his bearings regarding his stark surroundings.

He felt light-headed and woozy, as if he were heavily drugged—and then realized that is exactly what he was.

To his foggy brain the room seemed oddly-shaped, shorter and narrower on the end where he lay and higher and wider on the opposite side. As that made no sense, he decided it must be an optical illusion due to whatever drugs or opiate he'd been given.

Having no way to shield his eyes from the blinding lights coming from overhead, Illya was doubly glad his long bangs afforded him some slight shading so he could make out the outline of a door at the far end of the cell. Near its top was a narrow rectangle which he assumed was a viewing window for whoever might be on the other side; but at the moment it appeared to be closed or shuttered.

Curled on his side again, he looked down at himself, seeing the straight jacket binding his upper torso, while his lower limbs were clad in dark blue pajama bottoms. Not surprisingly, his ankles were manacled together and his feet were bare.

He rolled over a little and squinted up and about the room again, then tried to shout with a voice that sounded pitifully weak to his ears: "Hello?! Is anyone there who can hear me? Why am I in here? Can I at least have some water, please?"

But there was no response to his request, and the Russian had no choice but to lie there trying to fathom how he'd gotten into this situation—but he found to his alarm that he had no memory of anything prior to waking up in here, which made no sense.

Since he had no way to measure time passing, he also could not tell how long he'd been lying awake when the door finally opened and a dark-haired man walked into the room, accompanied by an armed guard wearing the Red Star cap and uniform of the Soviet army, which at first Illya did not register.

Even through the haze of the drugs in his system, the captive U.N.C.L.E. agent recognized the dark-haired men.

"Napoleon?!" he exclaimed in a dry croak. "Thank god you've come!" The youthful Russian struggled back into a sitting position again, trying to ignore the rising vertigo and nausea. However, he only succeeded in toppling over onto his other side with a low groan as a sharp pain shot through his head and his vision darkened momentarily.

"Illya!" Solo said, and started to move toward him, but the guard with him shook his head and motioned him back.

The senior agent gave his helpless and disoriented partner a sorrowing look. "I'm sorry, Illya. There's nothing I can do about this right now. It was only because of Waverly's intercession with the Soviet authorities that I was allowed to see you for a few moments."

Trying to clear his vision, Illya blinked at him, dumbfounded. "What did you say? Am I somewhere in the U.S.S.R.?" he asked in disbelief.

Solo nodded. "Within the Kremlin."

"But why? How did…I get here?" the blond agent slurred, trying to make sense out of what made no sense.

"Illya, don't' you remember that Waverly sent you hear on a low-profile mission, and instead you went renegade and tried to kill your father, Nikolai Kuryakin. You never speak of him, so I had no idea he was a highly-placed government minister here. "

"What are you…talking about, Napoleon? You say …that my…my father…." Illya began, but rather than continue, some inner warning told him to stop speaking.

Solo continued: "Well, in any case, you attempted to assassinate him but failed. However, rather than have you arrested, your father used his influence and had you put in here. He told me when I interviewed him earlier that he hasn't seen you in years. He also told me that you and he had had a violent argument in which you threatened you'd come back someday and kill him. Apparently you used your mission here to try and do that, Illya."

The younger agent looked bewildered. "Napoleon, it is true that my father and I had a falling out…but I…I would never try to kill him, no matter how much I despised him. You know me, the man that I am! There…there must be some mistake!" He paused, swallowing hard. "And…why don't I have any memory of any of this?"

" _Ваш визит с заключенными! Вы должны оставить сейчас_ ," ("Your visit with the prisoner is over! You must leave now") the guard brusquely said in Russian to the dark-haired agent.

Solo nodded at him then looked back at Kuryakin.

"I'm sorry, Illya, there's nothing I or U.N.C.L.E. can do. We have no real influence here, as you know. Waverly had to pull a lot of strings to get the Kremlin to allow this visit. But I can tell you that the Soviet authorities do not plan to execute you…at least not while you are being held for psychiatric evaluation and observation."

And with that, Napoleon Solo turned and left the cell, leaving a despairing Illya Kuryakin alone in desolate isolation.

* * *

Lewis smiled over at the dark-haired man sitting near Illya's bedside in her lab.

"You did well. The young man believed you were his partner, Napoleon Solo."

The other removed the electrodes attached to his own temples and brow and laid them alongside the unconscious U.N.C.L.E. agent, who was still connected to the memory retrieval machine.

"A brilliant invention you have here, Doctor," he replied. In person his physical resemblance to Napoleon Solo was similar enough to ensure that the drugged and disoriented Kuryakin would think it was his partner he'd been talking to, but in fact the THRUSH operative was a good decade older than Solo and not quite as handsome.

She smiled again and looked back at the monitor, where in Illya's drugged mind he was alone in the padded cell after the Solo impersonator had told him he'd tried to murder his father and that he was in Russia.

"Thank you, Erik. Yes, I am very pleased for the most part with its capabilities in combination with the new hallucinogenic I'm now giving him." She motioned toward Illya. "His generation often refers to this category of psychoactive drug as *acid*, but in this case the subject does not experience a sense of euphoria or well-being, but instead feels doubt, anxiety, persecution, even paranoia. At the moment I have only been giving Kuryakin minuscule intravenous doses in order to manipulate his current reality. By creating that false memory in the padded cell for our young friend and having you appear as Solo in a projected form along with Jackson here as the guard," and she glanced over at the limo chauffeur who was also removing sets of electrodes he'd been wearing, "I am beginning to crack Kuryakin's mental defenses by undermining his own sense of self along with his perceptual sense qualia. Soon THRUSH will have that formula and anything else they wish to know about U.N.C.L.E. that Kuryakin can tell them."


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 **"I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then"**

* * *

The next time Illya became aware of his surroundings he found himself accused of being a double agent.

He had jerked awake when he heard Waverly's voice saying over a loudspeaker, "When did you begin working for THRUSH, Mr. Kuryakin? Was it before or after you came to us?"

"I…I've never worked for THRUSH," Illya mumbled, trying to come to grips once again with where he was while processing Waverly's accusation.

He raised his head to see that he was seated in the middle of an oddly-shaped cubicle with glass windows on three sides. He was wearing dark blue pajamas and his wrists and ankles were manacled to a chair that was bolted into the floor. Somehow this all seemed oddly familiar to him, and he squinted against the bright light overhead to try to peer through the glass panes that formed the front of the cubicle or booth he was seated in—but beyond those windows was only darkness.

"I repeat, Mr. Kuryakin, how long have you been a THRUSH agent?" Waverly's stern voice persisted. "Do they know the schematics of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, as well as the layout of my new office?"

"I am not a THRUSH agent!" Illya protested weakly, wondering why he couldn't clear the haze from his mind, why his vision kept blurring and everything kept spinning.

"What of the fact you have been intimately involved with a THRUSH agent named Allison Lydelll?"

Illya looked blindly around in confusion. "Who is that? I have never heard of her."

"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin," he heard Waverly sigh from the speaker. "If you insist on denying your affiliation with THRUSH and your romantic entanglement with one of their female agents, perhaps you should meet your accuser face-to-face."

There was movement on the other side of those windows, and then the door to the chamber opened and a beautiful woman wearing a chic black mini-skirted dress with white panel inlays down the front and knee-high black patent leather boots entered.

She stopped and stood staring at Illya with a strange expression. Even with his bleary vision the blond agent could see that she was a tall and leggy brunette in her late 20s.

 _More Napoleon's type,_ he noted automatically.

"I'm sorry, darling," she finally said in a silky voice which had a slight indefinable accent. "But I have told them everything about us and who you are in exchange for amnesty from THRUSH and the KGB, which has a sizable reward on my head. You might say I'm the spy who has come in from the Cold War."

Illya stared at her. "Us? There is no _us_. I have no idea who you are!"

"It is no use denying that you have been my lover for a while, Illya. Do not forget that I know everything about you…not just who you really work for…but every inch of your body, including the fact that you have a diagonal scar on the inside of your upper right thigh and a diamond-shaped birthmark on the nape of your neck you hide beneath that glorious hair."

At her words he blanched but managed a defiant, "I've never met you before, and I am no traitor to U.N.C.L.E.!" He looked up and around the room, searching for the loudspeaker. "Mr. Waverly, this woman is lying!"

However, there was no response from the Section Chief, and Allison Tidwelll moved to kneel in front of Illya, knowing he was secured to the chair and unable to do her any harm. She reached up a hand to touch his face, but he pulled back abruptly and she let her hand drop to his knee as she gazed searchingly at him.

"Illya, darling, you cannot possibly forget or deny how often we would secretly rendezvous and make love over and over…." And as she was speaking, unbidden in Illya's mind came images of the two of them lying naked and entwined on a hotel room bed, his hands caressing and exploring her soft body while her mouth savored his.

And for a moment…but only for a moment…Illya believed her because what he'd just *remembered* seemed so vivid. But then his subconscious mind rejected the images.

"NO, you are not real! None of…this… is real," he muttered, tearing his gaze from hers and looking up and around again. "This is all a sham…an illusion…of some kind!"

In response, there was a sharp, blinding flash in his head—and for Illya Kuryakin, the lights went out, literally and figuratively.

* * *

Cursing under her breath, Carole Lewis angrily turned away from the memory machine after abruptly shutting it down

She then turned to the two people with her in the lab, an older man and a young woman.

"Thank you, Leonard. I'll let you know when I need your Waverly impersonation again," she said crisply.

The older THRUSH operative who had helped abduct Illya nodded and stood, handing her a small microphone attached to the memory retrieval machine. He'd not been using the electrodes because only his voice, not his image, had been needed this time.

After he'd gone the young woman said to Lewis, "I'm sorry, Carole, but I tried." The shapely brunette was still sitting by Illya's bedside and was removing the electrodes she'd been wearing and handed them to the neuroscientist.

Forcing herself to calm down, the older woman shook her frizzy head as she took them and set them aside. "It is not your fault, my dear. The boy's mind is not easily manipulated despite my machine or the drug he's being given. However, I may have to increase the dosage or try a more powerful psychoactive drug, although that is risky as it may potentially kill him or render him entirely useless before he provides all of the information Central wants."

"Then I think it is not worth the risk," the young woman said evenly. "Destroy his mind or kill him before he gives them what they want, and they will likely terminate you as well for wasting their time and their money."

The scientist gave her an anxious look. "Yes…yes….Allison, how true. I was just speaking out of frustration. No real harm will come to Kuryakin until we have no more use for him."

Allison Lydell, who was a top THRUSH operative, gazed at the unconscious U.N.C.L.E. agent and observed, "I've heard about Illya Kuryakin. He doesn't look very formidable, at least like this, and he's surprisingly younger than I had expected for someone with his reputation and impressive educational credentials. He must be quite brilliant. A shame he isn't really one of us."

Something in the softening of her tone and the rapt way she was staring at the unconscious Illya alerted Lewis to say, "Allison, those images of you and this young man together in bed were not real, remember that. Only an illusion you created in your mind to project into his in order to convince him that you and he had been lovers and that he had turned double agent."

The girl gave her a cool smile. "Of course I know that, Carole…just as I know how dangerous Kuryakin is with or without his equally notorious partner, Napoleon Solo." She laughed lightly. "But I can still appreciate such an intelligent and attractive man, even if he is the enemy." With that she rose to her feet. "If you have no further need of me now, I'll return to my quarters."

Carole Lewis gave her a considering look. "Tell me, my dear, how adverse would you be to actually seduce this young man in the very real physical sense?"

The girl stared at her. "Are you asking me to actually…sleep with Kuryakin?!"

"You have been trained to sleep with the enemy under certain circumstances, correct?" the scientist smiled slyly.

"Yes, of course, but what purpose would that serve in this case? You saw that he didn't believe he and I have been involved."

Lewis nodded. "But if you can convince him you are quite real and his longtime lover, then you may be able to convince him that he has turned double agent, making it easier for me to extract the information THRUSH wants from him."

They both looked over at Illya.

"What of these drugs you're giving him? I might not be able to seduce him if he rejects me or he can't function…or perform," Allison said.

"When I remove him from the IV drip the effects of the hallucinogenic will quickly begin to dissipate, at least to a large degree and he will be more functional. Men like him who thrive on extreme danger and risk also usually have a high libido. That is certainly the reputation of his partner, Napoleon Solo."

She walked over to Illya and unhooked him from the IV, saying, "In a matter of hours the young man's sexual prowess should return to normal even with some of the drug still in his system. All that will be required is the proper setting and the stimulus of a beautiful woman, which you certainly are."

Allison looked doubtful. "I don't know, Carole. He might just as easily kill me as he becomes more awake and aware of what is happening around him. His dossier and history make it clear that he is far more dangerous and ruthless than he appears."

"As are you, my dear," Lewis smiled


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 **"** **Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle."**

* * *

 _Author's Note: This chapter offers my take on Illya's family background. Although I know this sort of thing has been done before in MFU fanfic, my interpretation comes from the few hints given in the TV series about his origins. And even though the characters and their actions are fictional, the historical events as I've mentioned them in this segment are factual._

* * *

Carole Lewis had Illya taken to the secured room in which he was being kept when he was not in her lab. The mid-sized chamber, although sparse in its furnishings, at least offered a regular bed as well as a bathroom and shower amenities.

But it had dim recessed lighting, concrete walls, no windows, and only one door, which was always barred and guarded on the other side. And nothing within the cell could be used as a weapon, not even the bed frame, which was a plastic molded platform upon which the thick mattress lay—although because Illya was being kept in a drugged state most of the time he could barely function during the rare times he was more awake.

It was during those short periods of semi-awareness that he tried to fathom where he was, what was happening to him, and why. And it was during one of these times he recalled an old gypsy saying that his Romani grandmother Maleva had once told him: "There are lies more believable than truth." (A true Romani saying.)

Despite the false memories the neuroscientist had been implanting in Illya's drugged mind, she had underestimated her captive's highly developed eidetic mind. Illya's subconscious had so far managed to recognize what was real and what wasn't because it was inserting factual memory markers into those false memories for him to identify with.

For example, the cubicle he'd been seated in during *Waverly's* interrogation had been part of a real memory fragment which somehow had merged into the false memory delusion Lewis tried to create in order to convince Illya that he'd turned traitor and joined THRUSH.

When she began that session, Carole Lewis had given Illya the suggestion to recall a location where U.N.C.L.E. routinely interrogated prisoners, but his subconscious had instead provided two true memory markers to help him discern the illusion from reality...or the lie from the truth.

U.N.C.L.E. interrogated its prisoners in secured rooms or cells, never booths. So the first memory marker was the interrogation booth, which closely resembled the cubicle that arch-enemy Viktor Karmak had once put Illya in after kidnapping him from the hospital in a twisted cat-and-mouse game ("The Deadly Quest Affair") of revenge against the blond agent and Napoleon Solo.

Illya's drugged mind had also recalled he had been wearing light blue hospital pajamas when he'd awoken in Karmack's cubicle, not the dark blue ones that kept appearing as a recurring detail in these false memories he was experiencing. In other words, Illya's hallucinating mind was still able to recognize the booth and the pajamas as markers letting him know this scene wasn't real, but surreal.

And prior to the interrogation delusion, Illya's drugged mind had also still managed to realize that the bizarrely-shaped padded cell he thought he was in was part of a hallucination, and that the Napoleon Solo who had spoken to him in there was neither real nor his partner.

The man posing as the U.N.C.L.E. agent did not have the small telltale mole on the left side of his jaw which Napoleon did. It was a minor thing, true, but the blemish had helped an *acid-tripping* Illya discern the falsehood of what the bogus Solo had told him where he was and why.

And it was the *why* which had also helped Illya differentiate between reality and illusion.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin—born Illya Andrushko in Kiev to Vladimir and Irini Andrushko—had known within the deepest recesses of his being that he would never try to kill his father (although the bastard deserved it for what he'd done to help the Nazis during their occupation of Ukraine during the war years).

Nor was Vladimir Andrushko a minister of the Russian government, but was instead serving a life sentence for his participation in those previous war crimes. Therefore, what the fake Solo had told him could only have been gleaned from false information provided in the dossier kept by U.N.C.L.E. on Illya, and which THRUSH must also have. The man in those files listed as Illya's father, Nikolai Kuryakin, no longer existed even though it stated he was a minister in the Soviet government and that he and his only son had been estranged for years. Illya's mother Marina (a false name) was listed as deceased and that Illya Kuryakin had no other siblings (which was true).

Even Napoleon Solo's U.N.C.L.E. dossier was laced with bare facts and plausible falsehoods regarding his origins and family background.

While growing up Illya had always believed that he was descended from two of Russia's noble families: Belozsky and Andrushko. Not until he was a young adult would he learn the truth about his lineage and parentage.

Because of the Andrushko family's wealth and position, Illya had received the best education that money could buy, including studying at the Sorbonne and earning his first Ph.D. at Cambridge—and all in half the time it took someone his age and less brilliant than he was.

He'd never known his beautiful mother Irini other than from photographs. She was petite and delicate with large doe-like brown eyes and a wealth of dark blond hair she usually wore pinned atop her head. Always in frail health, Irini had died shortly after giving birth to her only child. When Illya became old enough his father Vladimir—a cold, calculating and emotionally distant man who secretly harbored a nagging suspicion that the striking blue-eyed, flaxen-haired child was not actually his—had shipped the barely four-year-old Illya off to boarding schools in Geneva, Switzerland**in the care of a nanny just prior to Nazi Germany's invasion of the Soviet Union in June 1941. Not only did Vladimir Andrushko send his young son to Switzerland, but a bulk of his fortune as well was put in Swiss banks in order to safeguard it from being seized by either side in the building conflict.

It was in Swiss boarding schools that Illya spent his formative years, as well as too many lonely birthdays and school holidays, seldom seeing or hearing from Vladimir Andrushko or any of the few remaining extended family on his mother's side—who Illya would later learn were forbidden by his tyrannical autocratic father to have any contact with the boy as a way of punishing Irini in death for that suspected infidelity. Vladimir had been several years older than his wife and therefore his own parents were deceased and he was estranged from the remainder of his family, most of whom did not even know Illya existed.

It wasn't until long after the war was over and the Ukraine had reverted back to Soviet control that Illya, who was just out of his teens and a recent Cambridge graduate, returned home to confront Vladimir about his nefarious activities during the Nazi occupation.

Illya had learned that Andrushko had become part of the Nazi auxiliary police and was now under arrest and on trial for being a collaborator and informant that led to the slaughter or deportation of thousands of Jews, gypsies, and other so-called social undesirables in Ukraine. As part of this *ethnic cleansing* the senior Andrushko had also been implicated in the deportation and enforced slavery of children as young as age ten who were torn from their families and sent to Germany and elsewhere during the war years to serve as menial laborers, household servants… and worse.

For years after the war ended Vladimir Andrushko had publicly and vehemently denied the gossip and accusations about his collaboration with the Nazis; but over time enough evidence and witness accounts had finally been gathered to warrant his standing trial for the alleged war crimes.

When Illya arrived to confront him regarding the charges, Vladimir privately asserted to the youth that he had done what was needed to preserve the family's wealth and position during the occupation.

"I dared not oppose the Nazis! If I had, I would have found myself sent to a death camp or standing before a German firing squads and buried in a mass grave…our wealth, property, and possessions seized. I did it for you, ungrateful boy!" he'd shouted at Illya. "Did I not protect you from those dangerous times by sending you away?! Did I not give you the best education my money and position could buy?! Have I not preserved our family fortune for you to inherit someday?"

Illya had replied bitterly: "I have been well-educated, that is true, which also served to keep me away from my home, my mother's family, and from you. But the real reason you sent me away I now know was because you couldn't' stand the sight or thought of me. You suspected I was not your son but another man's. And you collaborated with the Nazis willingly not just to save your ass and fortune, but because your ethnic hatreds and twisted political beliefs mirrored Hitler's!"

At that point Vladimir had struck him hard across the face, shouting that Illya was disinherited; and the angry and disillusioned boy had left without another word, vowing never to see or speak to Vladimir Andrushko again.

Not long afterward he would learn that Andrushko's holdings were seized by the Soviet government and he was found guilty for his participation in those Nazi war crimes perpetrated in Ukraine during the occupation. However, because he and his legal representatives claimed he had been coerced into aiding the Nazis, and because of his family's noble lineage and social standing, his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment rather than execution.

It was the shame of knowing what the man he called his father had done to his own people and country that gave Illya Kuryakin the determination to fight against the modern evils and aggressors of this world like THRUSH—and why he would join U.N.C.L.E.

As to Illya's true paternal origins, he had received a letter while he was at Cambridge sent from someone whose name he did not recognize. Inside the envelope was a brief note written in a shaky hand which read: "Here is an old photo of your father, Nikolai Kuryakin, taken when he was about your age. He loved your mother very much and my brave and honorable Niki died fighting to protect our people and country during the war." And it was signed Maleva Kuryakin.

When Illya had looked at the somewhat cracked and faded picture he realized that he bore a close resemblance to the slender and handsome young man leaning against the side of a gypsy caravan. And although the photo was black and white, it was apparent that the young man had light eyes and very fair hair.

Illya would eventually track down the sender, an elderly Romani (gypsy) woman he would come to revere as his wise paternal grandmother, whose pithy philosophies and dry humor so closely matched his own.

It would be from her that he would learn the truth behind his parentage and Irini and "Niki's" star-crossed love story, as well as all that there was to know about the culture and traditions of the Romani people, which would remain a lifelong interest to him.

And once Illya joined U.N.C.L.E., he legally changed his name to Illya Nickovetch (nee _Nikolaievich,_ or "son of Nikolai") Kuryakin to protect the identify of what remained of his mother's noble Belozsky family from THRUSH and to honor the brave Romani man he never had a chance to know who was his true sire.

No one, not even Napoleon Solo, knew that Illya had been nobly born and raised—and that there still existed another secret Swiss bank account established in his name when he'd been sent there at the age of four which held a vast inheritance he would receive from his maternal grandparents when he turned 18, making Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin an incredibly wealthy man in his own right even without Vladimir Andrushko's fortune.

* * *

(**Note: It was not uncommon for children as young as age three to be sent away from their wealthy families and enrolled in Swiss boarding schools just as Illya had been.)


	7. Chapter 7

***** _WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT OF A SEXUAL NATURE_ *****

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX**

 **"** **He was part of my dream, of course - but then I was part of his dream, too."**

* * *

Carole Lewis and Allison Lydell watched the monitor connected to the camera in the ceiling of Illya's cell as he got up off the bed and began stripping off the blue pajamas he was wearing. Once fully unclothed he then made his way on unsteady feet toward the bathroom.

"Well, my dear, he may be an U.N.C.L.E. agent, but Kuryakin does have a certain raw sex appeal," Lewis commented. She looked over at the younger woman, who affected a shrug of indifference.

On screen they heard the toilet flush and then the shower running. "He's obviously decided to try and clear his head by taking a shower," the neuroscientist observed.

"Maybe he just wanted to feel clean," Allison replied.

Lewis chuckled, then turned to her and suggested, "Perhaps you should go join him."

Allison frowned at her. "What? Join him…in the shower?"

The older woman gave her an impatient look. "The stage is set for seduction, dear girl. As you saw, he's still under the influence of the drug and should be…malleable. So go join him and convince him you are quite real and that he is indeed one of us."

* * *

Carole Lewis was correct in that Illya hoped that an icy cold shower would help clear the lingering lethargy infusing his body and the haziness from his clouded mind.

Eyes closed, he stood braced with arms outstretched in front of him, the palms of his hands pressed against the shower wall as he forced himself to withstand the freezing water cascading down over his wet hair, upturned face, and shivering body.

That's how Allison Lydell found him when she quietly entered the bathroom and stood watching him through the clear plastic shower curtain.

She'd seen him before, of course, but that was when the youthful U.N.C.L.E. agent was lying clothed and unconscious in Dr. Lewis's lab and Allison had spoken to him in his mind in a false virtual setting.

She'd been inexplicably fascinated with him from the onset, which she had certainly not expected given who and what he was. But now she stood mesmerized at actually seeing him so intimately this way, and she took in every physical detail of this man who was her sworn enemy—the long mane of streaked golden hair now plastered to his head, face, and down the back of his neck; the striking refined features and fair complexion; and the lean and taut well-formed athletic body. Although he wasn't overly tall…perhaps only an inch or two taller than her own 5'7" height …she thought he was magnificent.

She dropped her yellow silk robe onto the floor and moved forward to reach a hand through the opening of the shower curtain to adjust the flow of freezing water to become warmer.

As the water temperature abruptly changed a startled Illya opened his eyes to see a beautiful nude woman with dark eyes and shoulder-length brunette hair watching him intently as she pulled the curtain further aside and stepped into the shower stall, which was large enough to easily accommodate two.

In reflex the U.N.C.L.E. agent's hands shot out to wrap around her slender throat as he pushed her back against a wall of the stall.

" _You aren't real…you can't be real!"_ he gritted, his befuddled brain now recognizing her from the latest of the disturbing hallucinations he'd had.

In his confused state Illya had carelessly left himself vulnerable to her, and as a trained THRUSH agent Allison could easily have kneed him in the groin and slammed his head into the wall if she had wanted to escape him; but instead she stared fearlessly into his vivid blue eyes, their pupils still slightly dilated due to the lingering affects of the psychoactive drug in his system

However, she did not intend to try to fight him off, but allowed herself to remain docile and non-aggressive despite the fact his hands were around her throat and she knew he could kill her in an instant with just his thumbs if he so desired. And yet—he was not really hurting her or attempting to hurt her—and she suddenly sensed that despite his reputation as a trained emotionless killer, he also had an innate gentleness and kindness within him which he strove to keep hidden not just from others, but from himself as well.

And it was at that instant of seeing into the depths of his soul while staring into those heavily-lashed blue eyes that THRUSH operative Allison Lydell fell in love with U.N.C.L.E. agent Illya Kuryakin and determined that she would not allow this brilliant and beautiful young man to die or undergo further treatments or torture by Carole Lewis or anyone else, no matter the ultimate cost to her professionally or personally.

"Why.. .are you…here…now, like..this," he muttered, fully aware despite the drug in his system that they were both stark naked, glistening wet, and standing mere inches apart in what had now become a hot and steaming shower.

Knowing there was no camera or listening device in this room she replied, "I was ordered to seduce you, Illya, and convince you that you really had become a THRUSH agent while learning what I could before they play more mind games with you."

She went on to quickly explain where he was and why and what Carole Lewis had been doing to him. As she was speaking she had raised a hand to gently caress the side of his face, yearning to touch him in some way. This time he did not pull away and she gave him a tender smile. "But as they say, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind… and now I'm going to help you escape from here."

"And why would you… do that…for me?" he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously although he had loosened his hold on her throat.

Her gaze lowered to rest on his sensuous mouth. "Because I have dreamed of really doing… _this_ ," she replied softly, and then began to kiss him just as she had done in the false memory she'd previously projected into his mind of them together as lovers.

And after a moment's hesitation he began to return the ardent kiss, his hands sliding down her wet body to grip her hips so he could pull her tightly against him—and this time they both knew that this was no mere illusion.

* * *

When Allison finally left Illya's cell the guard told her that Dr. Lewis wanted to see her. The THRUSH agent went to her quarters first to get dressed, then headed to Lewis's lab.

"How is he?" the neuroscientist asked, looking up from the papers she'd been sorting on her desk.

"Contentedly asleep right now," Allison replied with a knowing smile.

"Well done, my dear," the other replied, looking pleased. "And how did you find your encounter with him? Not entirely unpleasant, I hope."

"I've performed less pleasant duties for THRUSH," Allison remarked. "And despite the drug still in Kuryakin's system, I admit he was all that you said he would be….and more." As further proof, she opened her blouse to show Lewis the reddened areas on her throat and bosom caused by Illya's beard stubble. "But you probably know that anyway. Weren't you watching the whole time?" she asked casually as she refastened her shirt, and was secretly amused when she saw the red-haired scientist turn a shade that nearly matched her hair color.

"Of course not! I'm not a voyeur," Lewis retorted primly.

 _Except of people's minds and souls using that damn machine of yours_ , Allison thought darkly, but refrained from voicing that observation to the odious woman.

"…sent for some tea and sandwiches," the THRUSH scientist was saying. "So come sit down and tell me what you were able to learn from our amorous young friend."

Dutifully Allison took a seat, already knowing the fabrications she planned to tell Carole Lewis. Then, as soon as the opportunity arose she would find a way to contact U.N.C.L.E. anonymously and let them know where Illya was being held captive.

And when his colleagues from U.N.C.L.E. arrived, she would kill the neuroscientist and destroy her machine.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **"** **I have seen so many extraordinary things, nothing seems extraordinary anymore"**

* * *

Illya lay awake in the dimly-lit cell reflecting on everything that had happened since Allison Lydell had joined him in the shower. What had begun there they finished on the bed he was lying on now, the sheets still damp and rumpled from their fierce lovemaking. The sex had been enjoyable and erotic (he had scratches down his back and love-bites on his throat and torso to show for it), but the impassioned sexual encounter had also served to provide him with the heightened adrenaline rush he needed to further clear his mind and body of the lingering effects of the drug derivative Lewis had been giving him.

Now he found that he was more able to actually focus on the extraordinary things Allison had told him. He not only knew the truth of where he was, but why he was being held, by whom, and for what purpose.

Allison had explained that so far a THRUSH neuroscientist, a Dr. Lewis, and her machine had not been able to learn from Illya anything pertinent regarding U.N.C.L.E. or retrieve the stolen enzyme formula— _yet_. Allison also told him she had discovered that Lewis had lied to her and was preparing a more powerful psychoactive infusion designed to circumvent Illya's subconscious defenses in order to get everything she wanted from him.

"This new drug may not kill you outright, Illya, but it will forever alter your conscious state as if you'd been given a lobotomy," she said. "And I did not want that to happen…to you."

As Illya mulled over everything the beautiful THRUSH agent had hurriedly told him in the shower he had seen the truth of it reflected in her earnest gaze. Incredibly, he had also seen deeper feelings for him beside desire reflected there as well, and seized on her feelings and attraction to him as the one chance he might have to escape this bizarre and dangerous situation.

So he did exactly what Allison Lydell had been trained to do as a THRUSH agent—he slept with the enemy. Like THRUSH operatives, U.N.C.L.E. agents were well-aware that sex often played a large role in the espionage and spy game.

The charming and handsome Napoleon Solo had certainly capitalized on his blatant sex appeal to women several times in the course of doing his job…as had Illya, although less often than his partner. But that was by Illya's choice, not the women who had been attracted to him. The blond agent enjoyed female companionship, but he was not the overt womanizer and flirt that Napoleon was and therefore chose his sexual partners more carefully.

The main difference in the present situation is that he gave Allison himself in exactly the way she obviously wanted in exchange for her helping him escape.

Now he could only hope she meant to keep her word and let his organization know where he was before Carole Lewis started her memory retrieval experiments on him again.

* * *

The following day at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, Brad Campbell's excited voice came over the console intercom in Alexander Waverly's office:

"Sir, we've received an anonymous tip as to where Illya may be found!"

The Section Chief motioned for Napoleon Solo, who had just entered his office, to take his usual seat.

"Where did this source indicate M. Kuryakin is?" Waverly asked solemnly. "Was he smuggled out of the country as current reports have indicated?"

Campbell replied: "If this new source is reliable, Sir, Illya is still in the States! In fact, he's still in New York City, in the Brighton Beach area!"

"Little Russia?!" Solo exclaimed, using the nickname given to that section of Brooklyn settled long ago by Russian immigrants. "So the information we received earlier that Illya had been taken to the U.S.S.R. was both a sick joke as well as a red herring, pun intended!"

"That is a possibility, Napoleon," Campbell responded over the intercom when he heard the CEA's voice. "This new tip claims that Illya is being held by THRUSH in an underground bunker not far from Coney island. The bunker lies beneath an abandoned warehouse that was once used to house tires."

"Very well, Mr. Campbell," Waverly replied. "Gather at least a dozen agents. I also want Mr. Solo to join the search-and-rescue effort, if that is indeed what this proves to be."

"Certainly, Sir. See you in a few then, Napoleon," came the reply before Campbell signed off.

Waverly turned to his CEA. "Needless to say, if THRUSH does have Mr. Kuryakin there let us hope you and our men can get him out alive. There is no telling what has been done to him in an effort to retrieve their stolen formula, and we may be too late." He paused and cleared his throat. "In any case, Mr. Solo, if you find proof that THRUSH has been using this warehouse and the bunker, if it does indeed exist, I want you to destroy it. I'll notify the proper authorities to have streets cordoned off and police backup and fire brigades on standby."

"Understood, Sir," Napoleon nodded, getting to his feet and striding quickly out of the office.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

 **"** **Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage"**

* * *

"Illya, darling, wake up!" Allison Lydell said urgently as she shook the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent, who came instantly alert. She'd come to him again the following day, and after they'd showed together and made love they'd fallen asleep.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, glancing up toward where they both knew the camera was.

"It's off. She's not watching now," Allison whispered back.

"How do you know that?" he asked, sitting up and running a hand through his tangle of pale hair.

"Because I've killed here," Allison replied matter-of-factly in more normal tones, adding with a smile, "So there's no need to whisper."

Illya stared at her a moment, not sure how to react to what she'd just said about killing the neuroscientist. "How did you kill her…and why?" he asked, now realizing that Allison was dressed and wearing a light jacket.

"I crept up on her in the lab and caught her watching us," and she pointed to the camera. "She likely thought I'd left you once you'd fallen asleep to return to my own quarters, but I suspected that she'd observed us not just today, but yesterday as well...although she lied and told me she hadn't." She reached out to lovingly smooth out his hair. "The voyeuristic old bitch was still ogling you lying here in the nude asleep when I came up behind her, so I hit her over the head and then injected her with a full dose of the new serum I'd learned she planned to use on you tomorrow." Allison shrugged. "But even if she's not quite dead yet she will be soon enough when the explosives I set blow her up along with that damn machine."

Momentarily speechless, Illya just continued to stare at her in amazement.

The beautiful THRUSH operative grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. "Although I also enjoy looking at you in the flesh, so to speak, you need to get dressed so we can get out of here before this place blows."

She tossed Illya some of his clothing she'd found stored in the lab and he quickly donned the trousers and dress shirt, fleetingly wishing she'd also brought him his underwear since he wasn't overly fond of going commando. But at least she had remembered his shoes and socks, and these he also put on quickly.

"What about the guards," he asked as he tied his shoe laces.

"Dead," Allison replied, going over to the door and listening before opening it to peak cautiously out into the corridor. "It's still clear and no alarm has sounded yet. I locked Lewis's lab and put out her "Don't Bother Me" sign she used when she didn't want to be disturbed. Strange old duck."

She turned back to Illya and from her jacket took out a gun and handed it to him. It was his U.N.C.L.E. Special.

Tentatively he accepted it and she smiled a little and told him, "Don't worry, darling, it is fully loaded. You could kill me now or take me prisoner if that is what you wish."

"Aren't you armed, too," he replied, not wanting to comment on what she'd just said, and she nodded. "Of course," and showed him her gun hidden under her jacket as well. "But I've made it clear to you that I have no wish to harm you."

"I know," he nodded, dropping his gaze as he moved to take the lead, but she forestalled him.

"You've no idea where you are or the layout of this place, and it is a maze of corridors and dead ends. I should go first."

Looking a little sheepish, he flashed her a half grin. "Of course. Just force of habit when protecting a fair maiden. Ladies first then."

She gave him an amused look then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. "All clear," she announced and with Illya following close behind she led the way through the bunker.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, finding this all too easy as he surreptitiously verified that his gun was indeed fully loaded.

"Hopefully most of them are dead. I poisoned their vodka, but not everyone may have consumed it at lunch," she said over her shoulder. "Leonard and Erik I decided to spare."

"Who are they?" Illya asked from behind her.

"Both are soon-to-be former colleagues of mine. I have them tied up in the warehouse above us and your people have likely found them by now. U.N.C.L.E. will find what they have to say most interesting, I imagine."

Illya took her arm to slow her down and she turned to face him. "Allison, are you saying that U.N.C.L.E. is here now...somewhere above us…at this very minute?!"

She put her hand out to cup the side of his handsome face. "I sent them word where to find you. I really couldn't let Lewis try that new drug on you." She kissed him tenderly, then turned around. "Come on, there is no time to waste. The explosives I've planted will go off in a matter of minutes, but we are almost there."

They'd only gone a little further when they heard a blaring alarm go off, and then the echo of running footsteps coming from somewhere behind them.

Illya's killer instincts and training kicked in and he whirled, automatically shielding Allison with his body as he opened fire on the two armed THRUSH guards as they appeared from another corridor. Before either could get off a shot the U.N.C.L.E. agent smoothly and effortlessly took them both out.

"Apparently they weren't vodka drinkers," he commented dryly, waiting to see if more guards appeared.

Behind him he heard Allison laugh and then reply with breathless excitement, "Bravo! That takes care of Jackson and Jenkins, who helped abduct you, by the way." She then whispered in his ear, "I'd heard you were as good with a gun as you are in bed, and now I have proof of both."

He turned around and gave her a whimsical smile. "I like to think I perform best in either situation when I'm especially...inspired."

She laughed again and took his free hand. "Come along, my valiant White Knight. You're exit back into the real world above lies just ahead."

They reached another corridor and turned into it, and she stopped before what was marked as a janitor's closet. Reaching into her jacket pocket she took out a key and unlocked it and then reached inside to turn on the light switch.

Illya saw a narrow passage, then a set of concrete stairs leading upward.

He started to say something to her, but she suddenly shoved him through the opening, then quickly re-locked the door behind him.

"Allison!" he shouted, pounding on the solid panel. "What are you doing? Where does this go?"

" _It's your way to freedom, if you hurry. I can't let your people take me alive. I'll never forget you, Illya Kuryakin,_ " came her muffled reply. And then he knew she'd gone.

* * *

While most of their team of agents searched the warehouse and property for signs of an entrance to a hidden bunker, Napoleon Solo and Brad Campbell were overseeing the removal of two men they'd found drugged, gagged, and tied to support pillars in the old warehouse. A quick search of their persons revealed they'd been shot with sleep darts and that they were affiliated with THRUSH.

Both Solo and Campbell had been taken aback by how much the older of the two captives, a Leonard Davies, resembled Alexander Waverly and knew this man had been the one who had lured Illya into the limousine that morning.

Brad Campbell was also staring from Solo to the other THRUSH operative named Erik Greene whom Carole Lewis had used in the padded cell scenario with Illya.

"Is it just me, but do you think this bird resembles you, Napoleon?" the security chief commented as the insensible Greene was placed on a gurney.

Solo scrutinized the THRUSH operative. "Well, I suppose I do see some resemblance," he nodded, then dead-panned: "But I think I'm much better-looking."

Campbell chuckled and started to reply, then glanced past Solo and exclaimed, "My god! I'll be damned!"

Following his disbelieving stare Napoleon turned to see Illya emerge on a run from a shadowed back corner of the warehouse, his U.N.C.L.E. Special in hand. Spotting his friends, the blond agent began shouting:

"Get out! Get everyone out _NOW_! This place is going to blow any minute!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Epilogue**

 **"Begin at the beginning...and go on till you come to the end; then stop"**

* * *

Allison Lydell stood within the growing crowd of gawking spectators being kept safely back behind police barricades as the old tire warehouse burned to the ground.

She hadn't quite told Illya the truth when she'd said she'd planted explosives in Carole Lewis's lab that would go off in mere minutes. She hadn't been that foolish not to allow them both plenty of time to escape, and so she hadn't actually set the timer until she knew Illya was safely away.

The other thing she'd kept from him (besides the fact she knew another way out of the bunker that led to the outside) Illya would learn soon enough once U.N.C.L.E. interrogated Leonard and Erik regarding their roles in Illya's abduction and captivity.

She smiled to herself at how she'd subtly manipulated Carole Lewis into encouraging Allison's seduction of Illya, something she had secretly wanted to do the moment she laid eyes on him.

Her gaze anxiously scanned the dozens of firemen, police, and U.N.C.L.E. agents milling about on the far side of the barricades, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the blond Russian. She was soon rewarded when she spotted him walking between Napoleon Solo and another man she did not recognize as they escorted him to a waiting ambulance.

Allison knew it would be protocol for U.N.C.L.E. to have Illya thoroughly examined by doctors and other specialists due to his enforced captivity. He'd also be able to tell them about Carole Lewis's memory machine and the drugs she'd been using on him, which ultimately would do him little lasting harm thanks to Allison.

She had saved not just Illya Kuryakin's life but his incomparable mind as well, and perhaps someday she would collect on that debt. And if and when that time came, she promised herself that she would also have him in her bed again. But for now she was satisfied knowing that she'd gotten him out safely and that he understood how much he'd meant to her despite his allegiance to U.N.C.L.E. and hers to THRUSH.

Allison watched until the ambulance pulled away, and then she turned and disappeared further into the growing crowd.

* * *

The paramedics had insisted that Illya lie still on the gurney in the ambulance while they checked him over. Satisfied that his vital signs seemed normal, they took their seats, giving Napoleon Solo a chance to talk more to his partner.

"Are you sure you aren't feeling any affects from what they did to you?" he asked with obvious concern.

Illya nodded and replied, "I've already told you and them" and he motioned toward the paramedics, "that I feel fine overall. I am just grateful to be out of there and back…." his voice trailed off and he gave Solo a strange, almost wary look.

"What is it? What's wrong?" the senior agent asked.

"Turn your face the other way," Illya said.

Solo blinked at him in surprise. "Why? Is there some reason you don't want me to look at you?"

"Napoleon! Just humor me, please."

Although thinking that his friend was now acting a little loony Solo shifted on his seat and turned to face the other way just to appease him.

Illya's blue eyes intently scrutinized his partner's face, and then he relaxed and gave an audible sigh of relief, quoting under his breath: "' _Now that we have seen each other,' said the unicorn, 'if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.'_ "

"Is that some old Russian saying? What does it mean?" Solo asked, now thoroughly concerned about him.

The blond agent replied: "It's from a children's story I read once. For me it signifies that this is no illusion and I am really seeing and talking to you right now, my friend." He paused, then smiled. "Just promise me that you will never remove that mole on your face."

* * *

Once Illya had been given a good bill of health by the U.N.C.L.E doctors he was released to return to duty, where he gave Alexander Waverly his full report about what he could recall of his captivity, leaving nothing out, including his physical relationship with Allison Lydell and her subsequent efforts to help him escape.

Waverly had accepted Illya's report with little comment, merely saying he was happy his agent had been relatively unharmed and that THRUSH had learned nothing of consequence from him.

The next morning the Section Chief , Napoleon Solo, and Illya Kuryakin were all seated in one of the interrogations rooms in the lowest level of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

Across from them on the other side of a bulletproof glass partition sat Leonard Davies in manacles, and behind him stood Brad Campbell and another U.N.C.L.E. security agent. All parties could hear each other on speakers and microphones installed in each room.

Waverly and his two agents had been interrogating the THRUSH operative regarding his part in kidnapping Illya and how it was that Davies looked enough like Alexander Waverly to pass as his twin.

Speaking in his natural voice the prisoner had explained that he was a retired actor and impersonator whom THRUSH had recruited six months earlier because he already bore a striking resemblance to Waverly. He'd subsequently undergone plastic surgery to enhance that resemblance in the event it could prove useful, which it had recently in staging Illya's abduction.

"You say that you were recruited six months ago by THRUSH," Waverly noted. "Yet our reports indicate that the Jabberwock has been operating in the field far longer than that."

Davies looked surprised. "Are you saying that you think I am the Jabberwock?"

"Aren't you?" Solo asked. "He's said to be a master of disguise, and yours was certainly good enough to fool one of our best agents."

Leonard Davies smiled. "Gentlemen, many THRUSH operatives are recruited and trained to pretend to be someone else. You have merely apprehended two of us, and we are low-level at that so there is little I can tell you. I resemble Waverly…Erik resembles you, Mr. Solo…attributes which THRUSH and Carole Lewis put to good use in their efforts to retrieve information which Mr. Kuryakin stole and memorized. But we have also played other roles. Surely you young men," and he indicated Napoleon and Illya, "have used disguises and other identities doing your job as U.N.C.L.E agents."

"Yes, that is true," Illya responded. "But if you are not the Jabberwock, then who is, do you know?"

Davies gave him an amused look. "You have already spent some delightful time in her company, young man."

"Sir, are you saying that…Allison Lydell is the Jabberwock?!" Illya exclaimed, looking dumbfounded.

"Our dossier on...this person…indicated this secret THRUSH operative is a male," Waverly frowned.

Davies shrugged. "Well, gentlemen, I am telling you the truth. Allison Lydell—and that is not her real name, of course, nor her true appearance—has even disguised herself as a man for the very purpose of throwing U.N.C.L.E. and the KGB off her perfumed scent. But because she betrayed EriK and myself to you, I have no qualms in revealing who she is."

"She had to know you'd tell us this," Napoleon replied.

"Of course, Mr. Solo," Davies nodded "Erik and I were intended to serve as her calling card, so to speak. But ultimately it matters little that you know as she is a most cunning and dangerous creature who has little fear that U.N.C.L.E. will ever catch her...yet curiously, she chose to catch one of you."

He looked over at a disconcerted Illya Kuryakin...and gave him a Cheshire Cat smile.

 _(Sloww FADE OUT...)_

* * *

 **"Beware the Jabberwock, my son** **  
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"**

* * *

There you have it, and I hope you enjoyed this new fic; and as always I thank you sincerely for reading as well as reviewing and/or commenting!

I mentioned in the opening that hearing the iconic 1967 song "White Rabbit" by psychedelic rock band Jefferson Airplane (easily found on YouTube) was a partial inspiration for this story. The song was among the first to sneak references about psychoactive drugs and magic mushrooms past radio censors.

For anyone caring to read them, here are those lyrics, as written by the band's lead singer/songwriter Grace Slick, who was inspired by what she perceived as subtle drug symbolism in Lewis Carroll's *Alice* books (which is certainly open to a debate I'm not getting in the middle of, ha!, but there is plenty about that online):

One pill makes you larger  
And one pill makes you small  
And the ones that mother gives you  
Don't do anything at all  
Go ask Alice  
When she's ten feet tall

And if you go chasing rabbits  
And you know you're going to fall  
Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar  
Has given you the call  
Call Alice  
When she was just small

When the men on the chessboard  
Get up and tell you where to go  
And you've just had some kind of mushroom  
And your mind is moving low  
Go ask Alice  
I think she'll know

When logic and proportion  
Have fallen sloppy dead  
And the White Knight is talking backwards  
And the Red Queen's off with her head  
Remember what the dormouse said  
Feed your head  
Feed your head

(copyright by Grace Slick 1966-1967)


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